One Night
by NotThatIWillEverWriteIt
Summary: "We are going to my place." A continuation of chapters 217 and 218. Tianshan.


The click of the lock echoes through the empty apartment when Mo Guan Shan closes the front door. He Tian tosses his keys on the kitchen counter and tells Mo to take a seat on the couch while he goes digging through a pile of clothes next to the bed. He doesn't turn on the lights for which Mo is silently thankful. Streetlamps and billboards glowing through the big windows leave the room just dim enough that he can hide in the darkness.

"Here, change before you get cold," He Tian says and tosses him a shirt.

Mo inspects the piece of clothing. It looks worn but not dirty. When he pulls it on, it's soft and he's surrounded by an unfamiliar smell he files away as He Tian and cigarettes.

The dinner He Tian was so adamant to treat turns out to be cup noodles, with extra chili. Mo doesn't mind, though. He wolfs it down and slurps the broth loudly. The spicy hot liquid warms him from the inside, courses through his system and pushes out the last remains of queasiness. He's starting feel like himself again.

The incident goes unmentioned. He Tian takes a seat by the windows, lights a cigarette and obverses Mo out of the corner of his eye silently while he devours the noodles. The end of his cigarette glows in the dark every now and then when he drew on it.

"You can spend the night."

Mo busies himself with the important task of twisting the slippery noodles around the chopsticks and shoving them, piping hot, into his mouth. Relieved he has something to concentrate on, he tries not to shift under He Tian's occasional glances that make him more and more self-conscious by each ticking second.

The momentary weakness has led him to the den of the devil.

After finishing the meal, Mo wipes his mouth on his hand and releases a satisfied burp.

"Can I have one of those?" he nods towards the pack of smokes on the window ledge next to He Tian.

Nimbly He Tian flicks out a cigarette but instead of giving it to Mo, he puts it between his lips, lights the head, and then holds it out. Mo glares at him.

"Fuck you."

"Come on, it's the lucky one. And trust me, these things are way worse for you than my salvia."

Mo stomps over to him and snatches the cigarette. It's been a while since he's had one, and the dry, strong smoke irritates the back of his throat and he almost bends over in a coughing fit. He Tian, who has been watching him intently, chuckles and shakes his head a little.

"You can sleep on the couch, if that's what you're worried about."

Mo looks down at the city and exhales the smoke through his nose with a turbulent swirl. The nicotine rushes to his head and makes him a bit dizzy.

He wants to run, he wants to stay.

"Why do you care?"

"Can't I?"

"No, you can't. I never gave you a permission."

He Tian drops his cigarette stub in a mug with some water in it, and the glowing head goes out with a hiss and soft curl of smoke. Before Mo sees him coming, he closes the distance between them and brings his face just inches away from Mo's. Automatically, Mo tenses and retreats but bumps into one of the pillars behind his back.

"I'm not really one for asking permissions." They're not touching physically, but Mo feels every breath and the vibration of He Tian's voice prickling his skin. "I'll just have to wear you out." The devil stares right at Mo, and he finds himself unable to look away. "Keep chipping off that brick wall you're so desperately clinging to. Because I know you're in there somewhere, I've seen you."

Mo regains some of his senses and juts out his chin in defiance. "You're crazy."

A half of a smile tugs He Tian's thin lips, but it's not his usual devilish smirk. It looks almost sad. "Oh, you don't know the half of it," he says. "But just imagine, all this crazy is on your side."

Then, as swiftly as he had invaded Mo's personal space and cornered him, he retreats and turns away. The trans-like atmosphere is shattered, and the pressure of too close eases off Mo's chest.

"I'll go get you the spare blanket."

For the second time, that night Mo's heart pounds in his ears, and he breaks out in a sweat. But it's different from earlier in front of the restaurant. He'd like to think it's the same but it's not. Instead of cold and clammy, his skin is fevered, and even though his stomach is dipping and twisting he isn't hit by nausea.

He's yanked back to earth by the cigarette burning his fingers. With a half annoyed, half pained hiss he tosses the stub in the mug and rubs the stinging skin absentmindedly.

Fuck. He better sleep one eye open tonight.


End file.
